Ran Into the Ex

Okay. True confession time. I was defriended by the ex, but I can still see his twitter posts, which I'm sure he knows. I am positive he knows, actually.

I've been meaning to write this blog entry since I ran into him, actually. But I've been hungover, working out, running around and having fun. But I saw this on his twitter:

"On nights where you see your ex, but are falling for a 25 yo you put on your one of a kind Prada coat a scarf and hat and pickup $200 worth of Jerry's."

I'm still kind of stunned by the world's need to broadcast every detail of their life on Facebook and Twitter. But I'm slackjawed by the fact that my life is out there via someone else's Twitter diarrhea. But why should I be surprised? The breakup was a twitter feed. So was the "taping of the last box" as he packed the things I had deliberately left behind. It should make it easier to be done with it.

So yes, I ran into my ex at Fubar on Friday night for Dance Bitch, which is a party I always RSVP'd for to get on the guest list (which is only so you don't have to pay if you arrive before 11). Every Friday afternoon I'd RSVP after getting the "last call" email. And every Friday night I'd be at home, waiting for him to come home from work, after working late at the office.

So did he know I'd be there? Maybe.

Did he plan it? Subconsciously, perhaps.

It wasn't a total shocker that I would be there. Maybe running into me will be a deterrent from going EVER AGAIN. :) I want custody of Dance Bitch.

Oh, so what happened? I saw him walk in with a neighbor of ours and a (now I realize) 25 year old.

Am I surprised that the midlife crisis is coming along with the break up? No.

Am I disappointed that it's such a cliche? Yes.

I decide that I'm not going to do this bullshit dance of "he's over there, should I talk to him?" Okay, so I had about five cocktails in me. So, from what I remember, I was totally graceful and an absolute lady about the whole thing. But I did do a quick "how does my hair look girlfriend moment". So with my liquid confidence on my side, I go and tap him on the shoulder.

I say hello. He says hello. And then makes a quick skiddaddle. And that was it, other than an awkward smile from him.

What did I expect? A Noel Coward scene? Two sophisticated former lovers run into each other at a dark night club in West Hollywood. They sit down at the bar over a round of drinks, reminiscing about old times. Civilized. Well dressed. Laughing.

That's actually the title of the play: "Civilized. Well Dressed. Laughing."

I am no Noel Coward. So my play ends with me picking up the nearest guy and going home with him. Because THAT'S mature. Hey, I'm not perfect. And that was a tough one. I think I kept buying drinks and drinking them. I got loaded. And I must have talked a great game, because the next morning, the guy I went home with was clearly charmed and smitten. And of course, I didn't remember his name.

It was comical. And exactly the type of play I'd be in. Or at least write.